


Night Security

by Caligraphunky



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's, Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:44:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caligraphunky/pseuds/Caligraphunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has had to take some demeaning jobs in his pursuit of self-employment. But one stands out as the absolute worst... (Steven Universe/Five Nights at Freddy's crossover)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. NIGHT 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the Steven Universe comic, there is a throwaway reference with Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica plush dolls in Greg's personal storage. This snowballed from there. I reserve the right not to stick to a strict interpretation of the game mechanics.
> 
> Feel free to leave feedback. This will probably be edited quite a bit as time goes on.

* * *

“ _Uh, let's see, first there's an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it's kind of a legal thing, you know. Um,_ _'w_ _elcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza: A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life._ _'_ _”_

“Garnet!...Oh, hi Pearl. It's Greg. Listen, can you tell Steven that I'm taking the night shift over from Mike so I won't be there to read him his bedtime story for a little while? N-no, no I know, it was last minute. It's just until management can find a replacement!”

What Greg did not need right now was Pearl getting on his back about this. Of _course_ he wanted to read Steven his bedtime story. Of _course_ he didn't want to work back-to-back shifts at a crummy pizzeria (Steven's _favorite_ pizzeria in the whole _world,_ he kept reminding himself).

But Steven was already outgrowing his clothes from last year, Greg had put off the oil change as long as he could and that gleaming, shining car-wash for sale at the other end of town was almost, _almost_ within his grasp. He _coveted_ that carwash like other men craved riches and power. It was his own personal My-Own-Boss oasis in the desert of Minimum Wage.

He stuck his finger in his ear so he could hear over the noise of his desk fan. _Man_ , it was stuffy in here. “I _know_ he's upset. I'd never miss his story if I could help it! But if I do this I can read him all the stories he wants all day long!”

He could do this for a just a few more months. Even if it meant sleeping through breakfast and lunch he could be spending with his son.

“Tell him that...he can come in any time he wants! Tell him it's only going to be for a few months! Give him an extra Cookie Cat at breakfast, please just...anything to calm him down. Take care of him while I take care of us, OK?”

That last line sounded pretty good, which helped him feel just a little less bad about hanging up on her, but it didn't help with the fact that the phone call distracted him from the recorded instructions he was supposed to be listening to.

“ _Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, good night.”_

Greg moved to punch in the numbers that would replay the message, though he was fairly sure that he didn't need instructions. What he was going to need was some way to pass the time. Who was going to break into a crummy kid's restaurant? He pulled out the tablet he was supposed to be watching the place on, readjusted the phone on his shoulder, and leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling.

“Hoo boy...”

“ _Hello, hello? Uh, I wanted to record a message for you to help you get settled in on your first night. Um, I actually worked in that office before you...”_

Greg missed the next sentence entirely. There was a clattering from the kitchen, like someone dropping pots and pans.

OK, be smart about this. Flip up the camera, see what's in the kitchen with-

_Chica?_

The camera always seemed to load up on the main stage where the three main robots normally stood. Only instead of three, there were two. Freddy and Bonnie stood staring at the rows of empty tables, but Chica was nowhere to be seen.

(Steven had made _absolutely sure_ that Greg knew all their names. It was very important. He'd done drills.)

The kitchen camera was picking up the noise alright, but the video feed was completely knocked out rendering the thing useless for figuring out just what the hey was going on. Less than useless, considering he could hear it from the security office. So there was noise in the kitchen and a robot was gone. And he had no way of restraining or chasing off the intruder.

Greg felt that should have struck him as odd a lot sooner than right now. He'd just sort of assumed that management felt the same way about the job that he did: it was a semi-pointless exercise in desk sitting that probably covered some legal liability or another. He paused the message, barely listening to it anyway. He half-expected to spend the night balancing a flashlight on his nose.

A flashlight. Another thing he couldn't seem to find anywhere in the office. Huh.

So his plan: Go down to the kitchen, knock on the wall, try to make himself sound as intimidating as possible, and scare whoever it was away? That could work, except...

If someone would drag a robot into the kitchen, possibly knock out the camera, and make that kind of racket where security could hear, were they also the kind of someone who would stop...whatever it was they were doing when another person came in the room?

The answer admittedly wasn't as bracing as he'd counted on.

Greg took a deep breath, and went to push his chair back when it stopped. Dead silent. Flipping the camera back to the kitchen confirmed it. Whoever it was wasn't making any noise in the kitchen anymore, which meant they were on the move.

OK, OK, OK, OK...Deep breath. If they're on the move, he can catch them on the cameras. The kitchen is camera...6. That means that the intruder is either moving towards the restrooms or...towards his office.

Restrooms. Restrooms, please, oh please let it be the restrooms. Please also let the intruder wash up after whatever he did in the kitchen. _Please._

The image on the tablet focused on the bathrooms, and Greg focused on the tablet. But as far as he could see through the grainy screen, no one was coming in or going out. With a sharp intake of breath, he flipped over to camera 4A.

There. Just as the static faded and the shadowed hallway came into view, a shock of blond hair in a severe cowlick vanished under the bottom of the screen, right in the blind spot of the camera, right...right outside his door.

In the pitch dark area right outside his door.

All the blood in Greg's body seemed to drain into a giant heavy clot in his stomach. The tablet shook in his hands, and all he could think of was that this guy was probably seconds away from barging through the door and Greg had nothing on him to stop it except a light and a door. And maybe he could swing the fan really hard. (He couldn't begin afford to have the tablet come out of his paycheck.)

Slowly, shaking, he reached for the light. The little bit of pride he left had couldn't let him be ambushed. The button pressed, the hall flickered to life and Greg screamed.

Chica stared at him thorough the doorway, silently screaming back. Greg punched the door button and it slammed shut, the impact rattling through his knuckles.

Part of being a parent is passing on life lessons, and Greg now had the most important one of all. If he made it out of here alive the first thing he was going to do was hug Steven for hours. The second thing he was going to do was pass on his new nugget of wisdom...

“ _Uh, the only parts of you that would likely see the light of day again would be your eyeballs and teeth when they pop out the front of the mask, heh._ _Y-Yeah, they don't tell you these things when you sign up.”_

\- Always read the instructions.

Greg wanted the car wash for a lot of reasons, but survival had never been on that list. In a vague, dispersed sort of way maybe: Put food on the table, buy the clothing Steven would outgrow someday, give him shelves to fill with books and toys. But more than anything, Greg had a sense that owning his own business would afford him some _respect._ How much more respect he'd get was a question he hadn't spent much time on, and couldn't afford to anyway if he wanted to keep himself moving.

And now Greg was forced to face the hard truth: while nothing in here -or maybe in the world- would ever respect him, absolutely _everything_ could eat his face.

2:00 AM. 64% power. He wanted to cry.

Trembling, he brought the tablet back up to his face, trying very hard to ignore the little power consumption meter ticking up to yellow. He saw Chica's back disappearing up the hall, which didn't make him much more confident about opening the blast door. Thank goodness the button was so big, because his hand was shaking too badly to press anything smaller than his fist.

Greg tried to attune his wars to every single sound in the building, but all that really did was make him hyperaware of the ventilation system and jump when the kitchen racket started up again. In combination with the relentless hammering of his heart and the rush of blood in his head he nearly missed the...

Second set of footsteps.

He dropped the tablet twice before he managed to fumble the stage into view. Freddy Fazbear stood alone and staring out into the middle distance. Bonnie was nowhere to be seen.

3:00 AM. 55% power.

The noise Chica was making drowned out any hope of finding him without the camera. Greg flipped. And flipped. And his chest seized and he fell out of his chair. Bonnie was staring directly into the backstage camera, his normally lighted eyes blacked out. The spare animatronic heads and the replacement endoskeletons stared with him.

Did he...had Bonnie moved them on his own? _Why?!_ To freak him out? To scare him off? Was it a threat...?

Why was the kitchen so quiet?

Flip. Flip. Chica was in the bathroom, and when he flipped back to backstage, Bonnie had given him the slip.

Greg has a headache at 3:30. By 4:00, he had completely given up on not crying, and the both sleves on his uniform were soaked before the hour was even half over. Still, they hounded him, the robots he used to find so cute, sometimes wandering near enough to peak through the doors and prompt a reflexive punch of the DOOR button but never quite making it inside. Greg could have sworn that he nearly took off Bonnie's nose.

Time became distant. Abstract. A loose collection of moment that could loosely be sorted into _Robot_ and _Not-Robot,_ stretched and compressed by the speed at which the remaining power counted down. And even if he did make it to the end of his shift at 6:00...Well, so what? Could he even risk walking out of here without risking losing the top half of his brain to a set of hydraulic cartoon jaws?

5:55 AM. 20% power.

Greg had only stopped crying because he'd run out of moisture in his eyes. They itched and burned and he still didn't feel safe in closing them. Chica kept moving between the kitchen and the party room, as if trying to carry out a program she didn't have the resources to complete.

5:58 AM. 18% power.

Bonnie was on the move, though Greg only caught glimpses of his ears as he wandered down the hall. Greg's hand moved to the light button, listening for the footsteps that would only come closer and closer until he had to-

_AND ANOTHER ONE'S GONE, AND ANOTHER ONE'S GONE! ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST-_

“Hey! Enjoy your first night?”

Greg's head swiveled to the door he hadn't been paying attention to, locking eyes with his smiling manager as he silenced his musical ringtone and answered the call. He gave Greg a little wave, mouthed "S _ee you_ _back here at 2:30_ _!"_ and vanished around the corner to his office.

The tablet, which he spared only a quick glance as he wobbled to his feet, revealed Bonnie taking his place with Freddy and Chica on the stage, ready to perform. There was no blood left in Greg's legs. Or head. Or the rest of him. He felt like a zombie that had it's own frontal lobe bitten off and replaced with shredded newspapers. Some movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye as he walked down the hall towards the exit. It was his manager.

“Don't. Tell. A _nyone,_ ” he said, holding the cellphone to his chest, “and if you walk off the job you can forget about using me as a reference.”

Greg walked out the door, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

 

 


	2. NIGHT 2

12:43 PM

Lately it seemed that the only laughter Greg ever heard from the Crystal Gems was when Steven was around. And it seemed to come pretty much exclusively from Steven.

Not that it wasn't exactly what Greg needed to hear right at this moment. He sat in the back of his van, mindlessly kicking his feet, letting his son play in the sand beside him and just...letting the moment wash over him.

Trying very hard not to think he might not have many moments left. Trying very hard not to let last night's moment wash over him.

He stared blankly at the classifieds open in his lap, unable to read them but knowing that if he closed his eyes he'd see it: his manager stopping him in the parking lot, smiling as Greg hyperventilated in the driver's seat. His expression didn't change as he let Greg know that the restaurant just couldn't afford any more bad PR and Greg's a father right? So he knows that depriving just one child of happiness was nothing compared to depriving children the world over of happiness, if Greg got his meaning. Did he? Did he _really_ understand?

“Yeah,” said Greg, “I understand.”

“ _Do_ you?”

Greg jolted to the side, slamming his shoulder into the door hinge and just...slowly crumpling down to the beach.

Pearl stared down at him. He had trouble meeting her eyes, and not just because he was laying on his side. Her smile was indulgent but rapidly waning.

“I was just telling you that you'll have to take Steven with you to work today. Amethyst told me to inform you that your friend Vidalia can't babysit.”

“What?!”

Pearl shrugged. “Her husband came back early.”

Greg's head was laying on the sand, he knew that, but it was also leaning on the headrest of his uncomfortable office chair, staring into the lifeless glowing LED eyes lurking just outside the door. He'd have to take Steven there. Steven, who liked to get right up close to the stage while they played. Steven, who smiled and laughed with kids that peeked behind the curtains between shows. Steven who always asked when Foxy was going to be fixed. A ball of fear welled in Greg's stomach. The Phone Guy had mentioned a Bite of '87, which was all Greg needed for his imagination to betray him, conjuring up images of Steven Universe, victim of the Bite of-

He couldn't go any further without the risk of losing his breakfast all over the beach.

Pearl wasn't exactly impressed, judging by the way she stared down her nose at him, mouth turned down and eyebrows slightly raised. Or maybe she had just never seen a human go green before. He slowly, sheepishly, sat up, brushing the sand out of his beard.

“I don't think that's a great idea, Pearl, I mean-”

“We can't take him where we're going, and no, I can't tell you where.”

“Can't or won't?”

“I don't understand the difference.”

“I...guess there's not one.”

“Then it's settled!”

“No!”

Greg hauled himself to his feet, slamming his hand on the van's floor hard enough to startle Steven, who stared at them with wide eyes.

“Greg...” Pearl put her hand to her forehead, pinching the setting of her gem, “I know this is difficult but you are responsible for Steven until he's old enough for training.”

She may as well have been talking _to_ Steven, with that tone. He wanted to be angry.

“Geeze, you think I don't know that?” That just sounded petulant. “Yesterday was _really_ exhausting.” That was whining. “And...well, it, um...”

That was stuttering. And anyway, she was right, about him being responsible. He _knew_ he was responsible for Steven, he didn't _need_ to be told. But how responsible was it to bring Steven into a place with giant killer robots? Of all the questions fatherhood had raised in his life that one was the easiest. He'd have to tell Pearl.

“Listen, Pearl, I know Steven likes the place but there's something about the robots that kinda-”

 _Why_ did she have to cock her head like that?! It was already really hard to say this without sounding like a paranoid idiot!

“-Makes me think they're gonna eat me?”

He didn't even focus on Pearl, some kind of defense mechanism in his brain took his attention to the seagulls she startled with the peals of laughter that rang down the beach. That was barely one level removed from her merriment, only about 3/4th removed maybe, but Greg was prepared to take what he could get. Steven toddled up to him, grinning and giggling, but he could hardly hold that against him. Steven was only laughing because Pearl was laughing. He was laughing because he got to go Fazbear's! He was laughing because he had _no idea._

5:14 PM

“Greg, we haven't had an animatronic manning the prize counter for a long time.”

“Ah, well, that's interesting. Did you used to-”

“ _So why are you over here?”_

The bathrooms were nowhere near the prize counter, but they were close to Steven. Explaining that to the same boss that threatened the death of both him and his son a day ago seemed like an awful, awful idea, just the worst idea that any man had ever come up with in the history of the world, but Greg spent the whole car ride to work too anxious to work out a proper lie. _Some kid smeared poop on the wall. Say it Greg, just say it like that. Exactly just exactly like that, exactly exactly exactly-_

“I- er- uh- It's-”

“Back to the counter,” he pointed, hands on his hips like a teacher scolding a naughty child. Cowed, Greg trudged back to the prize counter and took his place on the stool. The ancient, cracked vinyl sank under his butt with a _prrbt_ that sparked the same familiar giggles from this morning from behind the counter. Steven, a little too small to be seen until Greg looked over, had followed him with an armful of tickets. Greg played it up, giving a little “who me?” shrug that made Steven laugh harder and caused a few other kids in line -wow, there was a line forming- to join in the laughter as well.

“I can get a lot when I stay here all day!” he announced, partly to Greg but mostly to the rest of the world, as one would the secret to happiness. He plopped his large pile on the counter which caused the other kids in line to deflate, the tails of their own ticket hordes dragging on the ground.

“Ya know, buddy, there's an automatic ticket-counter over by the wall there if you wanna make this go faster.”

Steven wrinkled his nose. “It smells real bad over there.”

Another kid chimed in. “There's weird noises!”

“Like bumps,” said another.

“Someone's scraping too,” said a third, “and sometimes the curtain moves.”

Greg wasn't sure what a heart attack would feel like, but this came close to how he always imagined it. Greg's vision drifted to the ticket-counter, the closed curtain he knew contained Foxy the Pirate, and the sign in front of the robot's enclosure.

_IT'S ME._

His hair stood on end.

_OUT OF ORDER_

Had it-?

“Excuse me,” it came from the mother of one of the children, the one who complained about the bumps, clearing her throat. He jerked his head around so fast he felt a crick.

“Sorry, we're in sort of a hurry.” She had dark bags around her eyes and a strained smile. He nodded and swept the tickets into the ticket can. He already knew what Steven wanted, what he'd been saving his tickets for for months, and fetched the last Foxy doll off the shelf.

“There you go, buddy, your collection is complete.”

As Steven held his prize up over his head in triumph, Greg felt a tap on his shoulder. The woman held her child's hand in a death-grip as she spoke.

“I don't know if anyone has told you but...there's a horrible smell coming from the robots and they're leaking...something. Oil maybe? I mean, you really should have someone look at them, they smell like reanimated corpses and...um, what are you doing?”

Greg fisted his receding hairline in his hand, pulling on it hard enough to stretch his skin. “Right! Thanks! It'll...I mean, I'll let the maintenance crew know.” As he stammered, he stared past the woman and her child, locking eyes with his manager as he passed, slowly, more than close enough to overhear Greg's conversation with the woman. The man let his eyes narrow, and then dart to Steven.

“Nothing to worry about!” Greg shouted, “We'll have it fixed no problem!”

It was 5:23 PM.

When Greg took Steven home that evening, he was almost too tired to stand up on his own. But he clutched his Foxy doll with a vice grip even as he was passed out in the passenger seat, even as Greg carried him up to bed and tucked him in. And after that, Greg stared at the ceiling of his van until he stopped crying. And at 11:30, he was putting his stuff away in his locker, trying to will himself into walking into the death trap they were passing off as a security office.

12:00 AM, and the phone rang. With a deep breath that turned into a hitching sob, Greg took his seat.

“ _Uhh, Hello? Hello? Uh, well, if you're hearing this and you made it to day two, uh, congrats! I-I won't talk quite as long this time since Freddy and his friends tend to become more active as the week progresses.”_

Greg carefully laid his head on the desk. Letting it fall would be too much noise. Staring at the left door brought visions of Bonnie's crushing jaws unbidden to his mind. He turned his head, knowing full well staring at the right door would do nothing at all to help the situation. Nothing to do but straighten up, tuck the phone under his chin, and pull up the monitor.

Bonnie was already on the move. He'd already made his way to the backstage area and...wait, how long does it take to go to from the show stage to that room? Greg had carried his fair share of mechanisms from that room to the stage. It wasn't exactly a hike but the back area was far enough away that...the fact that Bonnie was already there made no sense! How could-

“ _Also, check on the curtain in Pirate Cove from time to time. The character in there seems unique in that he becomes more active if the cameras remain off for long periods of time.”_

Another thing to remember. Another robot that wanted to tear his skin off. He wasn't _made_ for this! Garnet could handle it, Pearl could handle it, even Amythest could do this and not worry! Why was it suddenly up to him?!

“ _Anyway, I'm sure you have everything under control! Uh, talk to you soon.”_

Steven. He's doing this for Steven. This is all for-How was Bonnie doing that?!

Greg didn't need to time it to know there was no way a giant lumbering robot could get through that hallway that quickly, but what did it mean? What Greg wanted to believe, really, truly, with all his heart, was that it couldn't possibly mean Bonnie was not only a killer robot but a killer robot that could _teleport._ He watched for awhile, but he wasn't doing this when Greg was watching him, so how could-

Foxy. Greg's at 80% power. It's 1 AM. He jabbed his finger on the monitor to be greeted by Foxy's face, peeking through the Pirate's Cove curtain with his hook. Before yesterday Greg would have never worried that it could be a real sharp metal hook. He flipped through the cameras one more time, but Bonnie was staying put for the moment. And Chica...

Greg punched the light button on the wall and sure enough, there was Chica outside the door. The sound of the door slamming echoed through the blood rushing in his ears. He was going to die in here. He'd thought it last night too, but now he knew it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. He was going to die. He was going to die. Right here. In this chair. Foxy was still staring at him through the curtain. Chica hadn't gone away. Bonnie wasn't bound to the laws of physics. He was never going to see Steven again.

Chica didn't seem to be at the door anymore, if the slowly vanishing footsteps were any indication, but it was hard not to feel resentment as he opened the door again to reduce the drain. Maybe he should just close both doors, write his will and let the power run out. Figure out a way to let someone know what happened to him. Let his death save someone else's life. Record a brand new message for the next guy and tell him to run as far and as fast as he could, get the police, the national guard, the Crystal Gems, _anyone,_ anyone, anyone at _all_ who could stop this. Bonnie. Chica. Foxy. Bonnie. Foxy. Chica. Foxy. Bonnie. On and on for this night and every night for the rest of his all-of-a-sudden very short life. It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not-

And then he opened the camera to check Foxy again, he saw his head disappear down the hall.

Greg screamed, completely involuntarily, his lizard-brain apparently having no regard for who he alerted, and lunged for the door button. He slapped his palm as hard as he could on the door button, sending him careening out of his chair and onto the floor in the most athletic move he'd pulled since he last danced with Rose.

Something slammed the door. Twice. Three times. And then no more.

The rough carpet scratched at Greg's beard, as he slowly peeled his hand away from the door button. He was shaking. Hard. He could barely hold the monitor steady as he watched Foxy retreat back to the cove. The banging had drained the door power. He was at 17% to last him the rest of the shift.

And something was breathing in his ear. Slowly. Laboriously. As if through terrible, terrible pain. An overpowering smell of rotting meat hit his nostrils and cut straight to his gut. He was going to throw up, but he didn't dare move, not a muscle, not even a twitch. Greg snapped his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable, imagining the feel of robotic teeth on his skin, of being hauled off to the maintenance room and having the meat ripped off his body by a spiderweb of crossbeams and jagged metal...

The alarm was going off. It was 6 o'clock. His shift was over.

He was alive. Robotic creaks and cranks burst in a cacophony in his ear, and then slowly vanished.

He was alive. The smell gradually dissipated, and Greg didn't care how shuddering his breath was.

He was _alive._ Alive to do it all again tomorrow night.

But alive...


End file.
